Catch Me When I Fall (8 page)

Ruthie hadn't written back. The envelope containing the July 1 bulletin and a pamphlet titled
Yes You Can Change
from another organization was returned marked “not at this address.” “Well, that makes sense,” Alida said, shuffling the envelope from one hand to the other. “She was renting that house with a whole group of students. They've probably gone their separate ways.” But which way did Ruthie go?

No card came at Christmas. Or the next Christmas. Not even to let them know she was safe.

Alida did her crying alone, in the late afternoons when Klaas was milking. Dinners were strained on those days. Alida served the roast, beans, and potatoes, and their forks clinked uneasily. Klaas tried to think of some news from the barn to tell her—a cow ready to calf, something the milkman said. She responded with trivia about their granddaughters—there were five of them now. The talking eased the pain, but it didn't cancel Ruthie's silence.

Tonight Alida said, “Madison starts figure skating lessons on Saturday.”

“Oh. Nice. Which arena?” He didn't care much for figure skating. The women looked graceful and lovely, and it probably took a lot of training to manage those jumps. But watching it bored him. Madison's interests tended to be fleeting—maybe she'd quit figure skating before Alida dragged him to her programs.

“That one near Sylvain Lake. Early morning practices. The hockey players get the good ice time.”

Ruthie had played hockey. He still hoped one of his granddaughters would take up the sport. He'd cheer at all her games. But it didn't look likely. The girls now ranged in age from two to ten and a half, and they resembled the girls their mothers had been—beautiful, long-haired creatures who liked dolls and crafts and made him put the worms on the hooks when he took them fishing. Even Sarah, the most daring of the bunch, made disgusted “ewwww”s and plugged her nose when he cleaned the fish.

“Madison gets up early anyway.”

“It's not Madison I'm worried about. It's Elizabeth who has to drive her.” Alida handed him the
Today
devotional. He opened it and read aloud the short passage without taking much in. Something about God speaking not only through Scripture but through history. Alida stacked the plates and took out Tupperware for the leftovers. Klaas thumbed through the devotional booklet and thought about fishing. Ruthie had loved fishing. One overcast day in early June when he had fieldwork to do and Ruthie should have been in school—she must have been in grade ten or eleven that year—he told Alida a half-lie. “I need Ruthie's help this morning with the calves.” Alida left for her part-time job in the church office, and he and Ruthie had all the calves moved to their new quarters by 10:30
AM.
“Time for fishing?” he said.

“Yes!”

He remembered her grin. Her wheat-coloured hair had been long then, usually tied back into a loose ponytail. She wore blue jeans and T-shirts on her sturdy, compact frame. No makeup. To him she looked capable. An uncomplicated woman—someone you could rely on. As his older daughters had gone through their teenage years, he often pitied their various boyfriends, even as he scrutinized them for potential vices or failings. His girls were handfuls. Spirited and skillful at getting their way. But Ruthie was different. Maybe a bit sulky around her mother, but calm and down-to-earth with him. Practical. He thought she would make some guy a great wife. Maybe she didn't have her older sisters' allure, but she would be a genuine helpmeet and companion.

Now he suspected he just hadn't understood her. She was a completely different person than he'd thought. With secrets she hid from him, not trusting him. He stood, shoving the devotional booklet into the kitchen drawer with the others.

“Want to play crib?” Alida asked. She was running the cloth over the already gleaming countertop, watching him.

He had chosen well, he thought. “Sure. I'll set up the board.”

•  •  •

The phone rang at lunchtime on Saturday. Alida picked it up. “Hello?” Klaas watched Alida's face flatten.

“Where are you now?” Her voice was pitched high, the words squeezed out, the way she'd sounded during labour.

“Just a minute. I'll ask your dad.” She covered the mouthpiece and looked at Klaas with dazed eyes. “Ruthie's here. In Poplar Grove. She wants to come over. And to bring someone.”

He frowned and mouthed, “Who?”

Alida uncovered the mouthpiece. “Who is with you?” She listened a moment, then covered the mouthpiece again. “She says, her partner, Beth.”

Partner
. The word was foreign; it twisted his tongue.

“She's at Eliza Zylstra's.” Alida's eyes held his and pleaded. He knew what she meant. Eliza Zylstra was kind but not discreet. If he said no, soon everyone would hear it. And judge them.

“Okay,” he said.

•  •  •

His heart wrenched as he watched Alida speed through the living room. As if the premier were coming over. She picked up stray stuffed animals left by the granddaughters, smoothed the crocheted afghan over the couch, ran a dust rag over the coffee table, moved the morning's newspaper to the mudroom.

“I don't have any fresh baking,” Alida said as she dashed back into the kitchen where he was finishing his ham sandwich. She looked distraught.

“Take something out of the deep freeze and microwave it,” he said.

“I will,” she said. “But if I'd known she was coming, I'd have made the peanut-butter bars she likes.”

“Well, she didn't give us any notice.”

•  •  •

There was more news to absorb when Ruthie took off her coat. Alida sucked in her breath. Audibly. “Well,” said Klaas, staring at Ruthie. He had meant to hug her, but now he held back. He stuck his hand out toward the other woman. “Beth, right?” She was tall and dark with a prominent nose and a large, attractive mouth.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. The words must have come out louder than she intended—she immediately lowered her voice. “Ruthie talks about you a lot. She misses this place.” Beth glanced around curiously. Klaas looked back at Ruthie's belly. Six months along maybe?

Alida led them to the kitchen table, not the living room she had prepared. He turned to Beth. She looked . . . Italian? Olive skin and shiny, straight hair that was almost black. “What's your surname?” he said.

“Dekker.”

“Dekker? That's Dutch!”

“Yes.” She smiled almost mischievously. “There're two of us,” she said, looking over at Ruthie, who shook her head ever so slightly.

Ruthie looked terribly strained. Klaas felt compassion that he thought probably only another father might understand. An urge to fix things, to transform the anguish on her face to relief.
It's fine—no big deal
, he wanted to say, the way he did when one of the older daughters—which was it?—had come home weeping from a camping trip, a large dent in the new Honda's front bumper. But this wasn't a dented car. He turned to Beth. “Where are you from? Are you related to the Edmonton Dekkers?” Strange to be doing what Alida called Dutch bingo with his lesbian daughter's partner.

“No. All my relatives are in Saskatoon—and Holland. But I've been living in Calgary for six years. I'm doing a master's degree in sociology.”

“You met at university?” Alida asked. Klaas glanced at her. When Ruthie first told them she was gay, Alida had asked Klaas whether they should have steered Ruthie away from a secular university. Should they have made her go to King's College in Edmonton or Dordt College in Iowa?

“Yes. At the Campus Christian Fellowship, actually.” She looked at Ruthie again, smiling widely. Ruthie moved her head in vague acknowledgement.

“Really?” Klaas met Alida's surprised eyes. Ruthie still attended church?

“Yep.” Beth smiled at him. He found himself liking her. Her large features seemed designed to curve into smiles.

After some tea and defrosted
boterkoek
, some strained chitchat about the granddaughters and the road conditions along Highway 2, Beth excused herself to use the washroom. “So when are you due?” Alida asked.

“Three months.” Ruthie looked like a barn cat cornered by the grandkids.

“How did it happen?” Klaas couldn't help himself.

Ruthie picked up a spoon and stirred her tea, though she drank it black. Eventually she said, “It was planned. It was—clinical.”

Artificial insemination then. But where had the sperm come from? He couldn't ask. The whole thing was abhorrent. Wrong. He looked at Alida, her face tight, her shoulders drawn up. He rose and poured his tea down the sink. “And you're planning to keep—to raise—this child?”

“Yes. With Beth.”

Alida's fingers twirled and spun in her lap, knitting without needles or yarn. Klaas's sigh hurt his chest. “We're glad to know you're safe, hon—Ruthie. But nothing has changed.” He looked over at Alida again, and she nodded faintly, her face pale. “We aren't able to welcome you here as if this is all—fine.” His voice sounded a hundred years old. He felt even older. Defeated, though he was pretty sure he was doing the right thing.

“Time to go,” Ruthie announced with false cheerfulness when Beth returned to the kitchen.

•  •  •

During the early summer, when friends and neighbours asked about Ruthie, Klaas and Alida would simply say, “We don't know” in a tone that dissuaded further inquiry. Yet Klaas found Ruthie on his mind often—in the early mornings as he sprayed down the milk house and during the long afternoon hours in the field. Probably the baby would be a girl—his family ran to daughters. Would the other granddaughters ever meet their cousin? Should they? Would the little girl be raised as a Christian? Was there a church anywhere that would allow her to be part of it? With parents like that? His own church wouldn't. Reverend Dykstra had taken him aside one day in the parking lot after the morning service. “It's a hard thing, Klaas, to do the right thing when our children stray. Sometimes we are called to practise tough love.” Klaas had nodded, though he found himself wondering what the minister—whose children were just two and four years old—knew about tough love.

•  •  •

The note arrived in mid-August, and they opened it together over their lunch of chicken sandwiches and coleslaw.
Hi Mom and Dad. Just wanted to let you know that the baby arrived and we are all doing well. His name is Isaac Kemp-Dekker. You can visit if you want.
There was an address in the University Heights area of Calgary, and she signed it,
Ruthie.

A boy. Klaas reread the message, doubting the words. Yes. A grandson. Isaac. He felt hot, then cold. Then hot again. Did Ruthie know what that name meant? Klaas did.
God's laughter
. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Was Ruthie making some point? No, it wasn't her way to be subtle or indirect. Maybe God was trying to tell him something? If so, he didn't understand. He couldn't condone this birth. Or feel good about this child. He said so to Alida.

“Yes,” she said. “I suppose you're right.” She turned on the tap and let the water run for a long time, kettle in hand.

“I think it's hot, dear,” he said.

She remained still. “Do you think they have enough money?”

“I don't know.” He fingered the note, ran his thumb over the word
Isaac
. “Maybe we could send a little.” He watched her profile as he spoke. “But with a note that we won't be visiting.”

“Yes.” She turned and smiled with relief. “That's fine.” She filled the kettle and turned off the water. “How much shall we send?”

It was a tricky thing. He didn't want to lose control of the situation. But a child cost a lot. And he wanted to be fair. He had paid for his other girls' weddings. Given them some money when they'd bought their first houses. Slipped each of his sons-in-law a couple of hundred-dollar bills when there was a new baby in the family. Just to help.

“Housing is expensive in Calgary,” he said. “Beth is still a student.”

“Ruthie probably gets some maternity benefits, and Beth mentioned a part-time job. In social work though.”

“The pay can't be much.”

Alida put the kettle on the stove and sat down across from him. “I wonder if they'll get any hand-me-downs. The older girls got boxes of baby stuff from church friends. Ruthie might have to buy everything new.”

They looked at each other. Alida tugged at her lip and Klaas stroked his sideburns. “Let's think about it,” he said. “It's not sitting easy with me.”

“Susan DeBeer helped raise her daughter's child.”

“Yes, but that was a different situation. A single girl who made a mistake. Let's wait. Think on it.”

“I'd like to help,” Alida said. She laid her hand over his. He stroked her fingers with his thumb and played absently with her wedding band while the clock ticked and the kettle sputtered.

•  •  •

Later, as he lathered his body in the shower, he wondered if they'd know how to take care of him. To look after a boy. Ruthie had no brothers, nor had she babysat for the neighbours as the other girls did. While he scrubbed his skin, the worries chafed. Ruthie could teach him to throw a ball; she was athletic. And who knew? Maybe Beth was good at that sort of thing too. Ruthie might even take him fishing, although there wasn't any good fishing in Calgary. The Glenmore Reservoir didn't count. A stocked pond. Buildings all around it. Maybe Ruthie would take him camping in the Rockies. He found himself imagining fishing with the boy. No Couldn't happen. He wrung out the washcloth.

What about when the boy reached adolescence? Who would tell him about the changes he could expect? How girls addled your brains. Wet dreams. Or maybe he would turn out gay like his mother. Or if not gay, peculiar, with only women raising him. Klaas felt cold in spite of the warm, almost hot, water falling on him.